How Not to Be Popular
by TrancyBaby
Summary: Lovino is tired of moving all across the country, gaining a new set of friends each time. his solution? Don't make friends. But the handsome Spaniard in his new school may just foil his plans. Based off the novel How Not to Be Popular by Jennifer Ziegler. Spamano
1. Prologue: Constant Change

**A/N: Hey, hey, Hey! So... this is based on the novel How Not to Be Popular by Jennifer Ziegler. I just Hetalia-cised it. :3 The main pairing will be Spamano, not to sure of other pairings just yet. This is my first time doing something like this, so I hope you enjoy.**

** I do not own Hetalia or How Not to Be Popular, both the plotline and characters belong to their respective authors.**

**Prologue: Constant Change**

Oh crap, what did I just do? My right hand hovers over my phone, fingertips tingling like the sparkling ends of live wires.

Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't have sent that text message calling Bella a faithless little slut. I'd been reading a lot of Jane Goodall lately and hit _send_ without really thinking it through.

Should I text her again? Maybe. Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. But… what do I say?

"Tra-la-la-la… keep your smile on!" Goes the song on the stereo. The singer sounds like he's on helium. "tra-la-la-la!"

I can't take it anymore.

"Nonno, can you turn that music down, _please_?" I yell from the back of the car.

"Really?" He says, his eyebrows arch in surprise. "It's not that loud."

"No, but it's not that good either." I mutter. Nonno simply rolls his eyes and turns back to the road, shaking his head. He continues driving along the interstate at fifty miles an hour while humming with the music, oblivious to the traffic zooming past us at twice the speed.

My heart gives a little guilty thump. I know he's trying to come up with reasons why I've been weirding out today. He has no idea my world imploded an hour ago, when I opened Bella's message. First I pretended to be sleeping so that I can blame my grumpiness and puffy, red, face (I was _not_ crying) on the nap. Then after I "woke up", he started playing his Joan Baez tape. I grumbled and pleaded with him to stop, telling him it was putting me back to sleep, when in fact it was just way too depressing. Now he's listening to some new age shit band with lots of high, breathy vocals and tinkly background sounds. For the last five miles, I've been picturing fairies frolicking on lily pads and unicorns sliding down rainbows. And hanging out in an animated Smurfverse is not what I want to be doing right now. Of course, my younger, high school drop-out brother, Feliciano, is humming along with him, the bastard.

Nonno lowered the volume, then he looks at me through the rear-view mirror and studies me, stroking his brown stubble with one hand.

"Why so glum? Come on, let me see you smile, Romano."

Romano Lovino Vargas. Yes, I'm named after the southern part of a country _and_ a cheese. Yes, it's weird. No, I don't particularly love it, but I just go by Lovino and bribe or threaten teachers never to read my full name aloud.

"I don't like smiling." I say from my flat-on-my-back position. From this altitude, I can see the underside of his curls, catching the headrest of his chair. I never got his hair, both my brother's hair and mine is naturally straight.

"Well what do you want to listen to?" He asks.

"I don't know. Can't we just… be quiet?" I ask, holding back a small sob. If either of my family members sense how fragile I am in this moment, it'll be all sweet words and hug therapy.

He nods. "You're right, Roma. Let's just sit for a while."

I close my eyes and listen for the squeak of the steering wheel as we round a wide corner. Then I flop on my left side and stare at the small screen of my Pantech again, scrolling through Bella's e-mail for the sixtieth time in as many minutes.

_Hey Lovino,_

_I'm sorry to do this in an e-mail…_

Why didn't I realize at this point? Any message that starts this way is _not good._

_I'm sorry to do this in an e-mail,_

_But I don't know where you are and_

_I need to get this over with._

_I don't think I can do this long-_

_Distance thing. I'm sorry, I suck, I_

_Know. I thought I could, but I was wrong._

_I like you a lot. But this is stupid if _

_I can't ever see you. My mom and dad say I_

_Should be a free spirit right now_

_Anyway. And I know you'll be meeting lots of new girls…_

What does that mean? Does she think I'm going to go all playboy the minute I start at the new school? I was going to stay loyal to her! I was! I was going to save up money and visit her over spring break! And she couldn't even last _three weeks?_

I'll bet anything that she finally fucked her brother, Abel. I guess I'd always seen it coming. It's hard to compete with that slab of good-looking guy. Especially when you aren't there.

It's stupid! I'm sure that's what happened. I'm glad I used to always call him names!

Of course… It's probably not the best way to win her back.

_Anyway, I'm sorry. At least I tried._

_Good luck with your new scool and stuff._

_Bella._

"Scool." She didn't even bother to spell check.

I consider texting her again but I feel too mashed up, like the remains of that skunk we passed on the road a little while ago. Instead I lay my head down and completely stretch out in the back of our family car—which, I should mention is a '75 Cadillac Hearse. We bought it while we were in Santa Monica from a really stoned surfer who called himself Ethan Foam. It's canary yellow with two black stripes down it's sides and I've already nicknamed it the Bumblebee. It's old and clanky and unglier than donkey shit. (and I should know—I saw lots of donkey shit when we lived on that farm in Oklahoma), but the one good thing about it is that if you want to lay down in the back, you can _really_ lay down. We've camped in it several nights. We're among the few people who can claim they've ever woken up in the back of a hearse.

It's also pretty damn appropriate for how I feel right now.

We're moving again. This time from Portland, Oregon to Austin, Texas. You'd think I'd be used to it. In my entire seventeen years, we haven't lived anywhere for more than eight months. For the longest time, I really didn't mind it. I even liked it. I thought it was fun and adventurous to set off for a brand-new destination and start over. But once I turned twelve, it began to get harder. Every time we left a place, I would leave behind good friends and fun school groups. I felt so… interrupted. And yet, whenever I try to explain this to Nonno or Feliciano, they say the same things over and over: "Life is too short, so why not see as much as possible?" "Humans aren't meant to stay in one place. If we were, we'd be plants." I sort of understand what they're saying, but I sort of don't. How can they say it's our normal state to wander when I sure don't feel normal?

This time is the worst of all. Not only did I have to say goodbye to my best friend, Feliks, I also had to leave behind a girlfriend. Bella and I had gotten together soon after I'd moved to Portland, so we were a couple for almost six months. Things were just starting to get really serious between us when my Nonno announced we were packing up and heading to Texas. Now I guess I'll never know what we could have been.

My eyes begin to water again and I muffle myself withmy green sweater coat (which I haven't needed since we got as far south as Tuscon.) I really don't want Nonno or Fratello to see me like this. I'm acting like a girl. They wouldn't understand. Nonno would hug me and say that Bella and I just weren't meant to be—that the Universe had other plans for us. Feliciano would talk about how great it was going to be in Austin.

But he's wrong. It won't be great. Nothing will ever be as great as Portland and what I have there.

Correction: _had _there.

Eventually my eyes dry up and that empty, wasted feeling returns. I secretly wipe my eyes on the sweater sleeve and pitch it and my cell phone back into my bag. Maybe I really should take a nap. I need to shut down my brain or do something other than think about Bella. Of course, I'll probably dream about her.

"Look! A sign!" Feliciano suddenly calls out. I push myself up onto my elbows and glance out the windshield. When Feliciano says a "sign" it could be anything from a list of gas stations at the next exit to a boulder shaped like a heart. This time it's an actual road sign.

"Austin… three hundred miles." Nonno reads out loud. "We'll be there just after sunset."

"Joy." I mumbled, and flop back down again.

We were supposed to have made it to Austin from Portland in a week. But travelling cross-country with my family is like entering a time vortex. They aren't very good with schedules and fixed destinations. In California, he heard about a Roman Rensissance Festival and just had to stop. So for three days, I watched my grandfather and my brother running around in tights. Not fun. Finally we made it to Arizona, where we picked up a really skinny hitchhiker named Turin. He claimed to be investigating UFOs and talked Nonno into driving seventy miles off course to the middle of some desert so we could drop him off at a point called the pickup spot. It took us three days to get through New Mexico, since Nonno kept stopping at Indian Pueblos. He loves showing off his knowledge of Zuni and Laguna culture by leading around groups of tourists. Looking like an idiot in his big sun hat and walking stick, looking like some form of a hippie wizard.

You'd never know by looking at him, but my grandfather is something of a genius. He's sixty four years old (still pretty young for a grandpa) and still doesn't know what he wants to do when he grows up.

Feliciano, is a complete and utter fruitcake. He's a flower child. No he doesn't do hallucinogenic drugs (at least not anymore) or sleep with everyone he feels a karmic bond with (that I know of), but he loves to dance.—anywhere, anytime, Like at my junior choir concert last year. While everyone else sat in their chairs smiling and listening, he lept to his feet and began an interpretive dance to our rendition of "Can You Feel the Love a Tonight". But as crazy as he is, the reason we're moving to Austin is because he was accepted into this really famous massage school. He'll finsh his course work within four months and then… who knows where we'll end up?

And me? Your guess is as good as mine, Sometimes I think I don't even know myself well enough to figure out what I ahould be. Last summer I started seriously thinking about becoming a culture anthropologist, like Margaret Mead. The great thing about it is that when you're doing a study , you stay in one place for a really long time, observing and interrogating. You can't just take off and leave things half finished. If you do, all the hard work you've done up til then will be worthless.

Of course, last summer I started picturing Bella in my future too. And look how that ended up.

I stare out the rear window in the direction we came from—toward Portland and Bella. A dark shape rolls across the road, followed by a second, smaller one. Tumbleweeds, Nonno calls them. Uprooted brushes that go wherever the wind takes them.

Just like us.

My lips go all wiggly again, so I press them together to make them stop. I need to crawl away somewhere and have a good cry, maybe even call Feliks. It would make me fell better to hear her cursing at Bella in one or more of his filthy rants. But thenm, maybe it wouldn't. After all, I miss him too.

If you were to look through my address-book and see the hundred-odd entries, you'd assume I was one of those rich teen starlets who girls go crazy for, in designer jeans and sweaters who attend parties every night. But the truth is I don't have many friends.

Oh sure, those address-book contacts _start out_ as my friends. Eight before we leave a place, they hug me and pat me on the back, promising to write and call. I get a few w-mails, maybe a phone call or two, in the first couple of months,he letters get shorter and less frequent. The phone calls became awkward and boring. And then everything just stops. In a matter of months, I go from one of their best friends, to a long-distance buddy, to "this guy I used to know."/

And now Bella! Damn! Ahw didn't even try!

It isn't fair. I don't want to go to Austin, It's not like there's anything there for me. Feliciano will finish up his certification, and Nonno will work the thrift store of his friend Sadiq. And me? I just get to repeat this misery all over again—only in a new place with new people.

Knowing this makes me mad-sad-scared. I can't do the new-school drill anymore. If I'm going to leave in a few months, why even bother trying to fit in? I should probably just give up on friends this time around and be be one of those creepy loner types.

_Wait…_

Axtually… Now that I think about it, that's not such a bad idea.

I struggle upright, feeling energized. I've never considered it that way before. It really _doesn't_ make sense to find a new crowd of pals if we're not even going to stay past the holidays. So … what id I just avoided that altogether? What if I kept to myself and did nothing but schoolwork—steering clear of all the social stuff?

Of course it would _really_ suck. No one to talk to (except Nonno and Fratello). No parties. No one to hang out with, Basically no fun at all. School has always been a place where I could feel normal. Could I stand not being one of the "normal" kids? I've always been popular, at least a little bit, and I've never, _ever_, been a complete loser. So if I want to become one on purpose… could I even pull it off?

Four months of solitude would be better than how I feel right now. I won't have anyone to lose.

It's a crazy idea, but I have to admit, it's also kind of brilliant. No friends, no fun clubs, and _definitely_ no girlfriends. Then when it comes time to move, it won't hurt at all. Maybe I'll even look forward to it!

I reach for my blue Jansport and rummage through the contents for a pen and the notepad I keep to remind me of stuff. The frantic, ripped-up feeling that came over me after reading Bella's message has eased a bit, replaced by a fierce energy.

All I need is a plan of action. I've never tried anything this bizarre, so I could use a set of rules to make sure I know what I;m doing, Shouldn't be difficult to think of some, I know how to be popular, and I've read tons of magazine articles on the subject, so it seems to me that I should do the exact _opposite_ of what they advised in these handy tips.

And really, how hard can it be?


	2. Chapter 1: Act Naturally

**Holy crap, peoples. *writer's cramp* I'm keeping this short. This thing is over ****6,000 words. I don't own anything.**

_**Chapter One: Act Naturally**_

Tip: Popular people don't go anywhere by themselves. Thus, it must also stand to reason that the unpopular are always alone.

First days of school always make me feel extra alive. My senses just seem magically improved. It's like I can fully live in the moment and simultaneously float along beside myself, carefully recording everything for later viewing. And this, I know, will become a treasured memory. The kind that replays itself in full color and digital surround sound, with credits rolling at the end. This will be the day I finally figure out my life. The day I overcome the burden of being a Traveling Vargas. Today I begin Operation Avoid Friends. (OAF?).

Knowing I have nothing to lose this time around makes me feel better about the whole situation. To tell the truth, I'm even a little excited about it.

Of course, this is the first day of school only for me. Everyone else has been here for over two weeks. That's another thing about my family, especially since Feliciano dropped out: they can't be on time for anything. First, they took their own sweet time making it to Austin; then yesterday they had the entire day to officially enroll me at Lakewood High, but when did we walk in the door? At a quarter to five. The registrar was about to shut down her computers—something she reminded us of several times as she raced through the enrollment process. Of course, Nonno and Feli didn't seem to notice. As Nonno slowly filled out forms in his ornate handwriting, the lady kept tapping her car keys against her desk. But Feliciano just hummed along with the beat.

So here I am, getting my first glimpse at Lakewood's teen population. The students don't look that different from Portland kids. Or Seattle or Berkeley or Boulder or Madison or Santa Fe kids for that matter. All the typical groupings are here. This is my tenth high school, so as you can imagine, I've gotten really good at figuring out the cliques and the power rankings, just by noticing the way kids dress and act.

Hanging at the edge of the parking lot, under a cloud of cigarette smoke are the Stoners, aka, Burnouts, Thugs, or Fry-Boys as I've heard them called all over the place. Rockers and Skaters are a subset of this group and they overlap like Venn diagrams for partying purposes. Bella had been a part of this group in Portland; spiky-haired skaters like her brother were the dominant breed there, and she was pulled in with him. She would have been much prettier in a cheerleading skirt, I think. But obviously, another group was top-dog here in Austin. Here the Skaters seem to be of skinner, squirrelier stock and they aren't surrounded by a group of admirers.

Sitting at a couple of picnic tables on the front lawn are the Brains. Or Nerds, Honor Roll Dweebs, Debate Club Dorks, or Goobers. Judging by all the big black instrument cases, I'd say most of them take band, which is typical. At other schools I've learned that almost all superbrain students take band or orchestra, but not all band or orchestra students are superbrains. Band is a phylum, Brains are a genus.

Swarming around a stone wall that separates the parking lot from the school is what I guess to be the art and/or theater crowd. A guy in camo pants and a T-shirt with something ironic on it (I'm too far away to read it) is reenacting some outrageous sketch with a bad British accent. Meanwhile his peers cheer him on. A Goth couple in the front is really cracking up, which makes me smile. It's always funny to see Goths laugh.

And finally, scattered about the covered walkway leading to the school's front doors are the heads of the high school ecosystem. This category differs slightly from school to school, but usually it includes perfect poster types with an overabundance of money and power. In this case, preppy jocks appear to be the ruling class—mainly guys with football player builds, spiky flattop hairdos, and urban designer clothes.

There are a few pretty girls sprinkled in with them, but U see immediately they are mainly accessories. I haven't yet spotted the school's female ruling group.

I typically try to integrate with the school's largest power. Being part of the power clique means you're automatically protected to a degree. It's shallow, I know, but I'm an Italian. I win them over with my wit, and _bam_, I've got the football team on my side. I get access to the best clubs and parties and sometimes have more privileges at school. Everything is just easier. I've never made top tier, but I've almost always been part of that scene—until this time, that is. Under the rules of my antipopularity plan, I can't associate with any friend worthy people. Instead I'm going to be one of those weird outsider types—the ones who are always by themselves and give off lots of keep-away vibes. The kind of person no one notices after a while.

"Hey! New guy!" One of the Alpha guys calls out to me. He's one of those guys a girl would consider cute. Very cute, in fact. Dark, curly, brown hair, strong jaw, very white teeth, and remarkably tanned. I know I'm trying to avoid people, but this guy is practically blinding me with me, and it's hard to look away. "Where are you from?" He's Spanish, definitely Spanish with that accent. He'd added an extra emphasis on "you".

I hear my response in my head. _ All over the place_. It's a struggle, but I don't let it out. Instead, I tear my gaze off him and fiddle with my messenger bag, hoping he'll lose interest. Just being near this guy kind of reminds me of Bella, who was always as bright and happy looking as this guy. In a strange, twisted, gender-bending sort of way.

"Hey, you! I'm talking to you!" He says louder, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice that his pals turn their heads simultaneously. Even a couple of passersby slow down to watch.

I wish he'd just declare me a weirdo and move on, but instead he hops down off his perch and walks up next to me. His cohorts pivot around, their faces gleaming expectantly.

"Didn't you hear me?" the guy asks. He leans forward, hovering his face over mine as if to give the best possible view of his perfect cheekbones.

A warm sensation trickles through me—probably hormones. This is the type of guy a girl would embarrass themselves for, a guy who could possibly help me get over Bella… Wait! What the hell?! This was a guy! What am I thinking?

As I stood there, sifting through my jumbled thoughts, the guy's face takes on a concerned look. "Hey, I'm sorry, I was just trying to be friendly."

"Blow him off, Antonio," calls out one of the guys he'd been standing with. "He's probably got someone else giving it to him." This made my face heat up darkly. Denied any entertainment, the crowd turns back toward other approaching students.

The guy gives me a final-once over and another beaming smile and strolls back to his crowd. I feel simultaneously let down and relieved—mainly relieved. I could have messed up my antipopularity strategy five minutes after arriving at school, nut I didn't. And if a TV-star handsome guy doesn't throw me off, nothing will. Not that I thought Antonio was TV-star handsome in the slightest.

I push through the double glass doors and cross the foyer and enter the wide-open student-center area; I find a swarm of cheerleader and dance-squad types. All of them are thin and pretty and wearing the trendiest fashions—no doubt copied from whatever bad-girl starlet had made the tabloid covers lately. No one takes any notice of me. They're all too busy practicing routines or painting spirit posters or gossiping. I see a few males dotted among the dancing beauties. No doubt they're all either gay as fuck or they're only there to have sex with all the cheerleaders.

In the past, I'd once tried to join this group by dating a few of the girls—you know, celebrity-assistant types who get to share in the spoils, and that's exactly how I met Feliks. But I wouldn't do that here. Instead I make myself look away, and wander off to find my locker assignment.

So far I've seen nothing that makes this school seem any better or worse than the others I've been to—which is fine. Since I'll know exactly what to expect, it should be no problem to stay out of everyone's way for four months.

Then, when I leave, it will be like I was never here at all.

After wandering in a complete circle, I finally found my homeroom. Room 117 is an offshoot of the middle hallway, coming right after a succession of supply closets, restrooms, and stairwells.

I'm already late by a minute or two, but it doesn't seem to matter. Most of the students are out of their seats and talking loudly. A couple of girls in the corner are singing a hip-hop song.

I walk up to the obvious teacher—a small, skinny man with long blonde hair and glasses—who my schedule identifies as Mr. Williams. He's standing near the blackboard, facing the room and muttering something. It's not until I'm right beside him that I realize he's addressing the class.

"Everyone quiet. Please take your seats. Sit down, please." He mumbles.

He doesn't notice me until I wave the office forms in front of him.

"Oh! Hello. I didn't see you there. New student? How nice."

He takes one of the forms and returns the rest to me.

"You may sit wherever you wish. Although…" He pushes his glasses up on his nose and peers out at the assembled mob. The hip-hop girls are teaching each other dance moves now. And a couple of doofus looking guys are playing some game in which they slap each other on the back of the head. "I'm not sure which seats are available."

He shuffles forward a few steps. "Class? Sit down now… Class?"

No response. The glasses of one of the slap- happy guys goes whizzing past us.

"All right now." He tentatively waves his arms as if trying to stop an approaching truck. "Be quiet now. Take your seats."

"Hey!" A booming voice cuts through the noise, making everyone freeze. Mr. Williams drops the paper he took from me and I quickly retrieve it.

"Ya'll sit down and be quiet!"

A tall guy is standing in the middle of the desks with his hands cupped around his mouth for better amplification. He has a crop of short, nearly white hair atop his head and deep red eyes.

The students grumble and roll their eyes as they gradually take their chairs.

A young woman rolls her eyes in an annoyed manner. She's attractive in a way, I guess. She was tan, and skinny, with lots of curve in her hips. She had dark blue eyes and hair the color of candlelight. She was the definition of a high school queen bee down to the constant look of disgust on her face.

She and her two friends are the last to sink down into the crowd, except for the loud do-gooder. As soon as the room is quiet, he lowers himself into his seat and smiles back up at us. At first I assume he's waiting for Mr. Williams to pat him on the head, but then I realize he's looking at me. I stare right back. He has such strange red eyes. I guess I could say he was attractive… in a door-to-door salesman kind of way. But what was with the hair? Wait, did I just say he was attractive? Again?!

"Thank you, Gilbert." Says Mr. Williams in his soft voice. I realize I can still barely hear him, even with the room quiet. "Boys and girls… I'd like to introduce a brand-new student, Mr…uh…." He frowns down at the paper, most likely unsure how to pronounce the Italian. "Mr. Roma—"

"Lovino." I interrupt hurriedly. "I go by Lovino." I try not to smile or make eye contact with anyone, but my first day superpowers still pick up everyone's stares—especially the one of the albino teacher's pet.

"Please welcome Lovino Vargas and help him feel at home." Mr. Williams continues. He leans towards me, lowering his weak voice to an almost nonexistent level. "Go ahead and find a seat wherever you'd like."

Without taking too much time to consider, I walk to the first vacant desk I see and plunk down in the blue plastic chair.

"Oh my god. I hate you." A voice comes from behind me. I'm so shocked that my head automatically whips around. I've sat down in front of that blonde smartass…

"I hate you." She says again, this time to my face.

At first I'm stunned, then slightly hurt, then panicked. I've run afoul of a school's ruling class before, but never this badly or quickly. Then I remember… I don't want to be liked here. This shouldn't matter.

"Your hair looks so great, I just hate you." She continues.

I start breathing again. "Oh," I respond, unsure of what else to say. I've never understood girls.

"Do you get it permed?" She asks between chews of pink gum.

"Uh…no." What the hell is a perm?

Her perfectly perked eyebrows rise to reveal her first expression beyond deadpan boredom: disbelief.

"Really?" She's the kind of girl who pronounces the word "rully" and probably says at a lot. "But you do color it, right?" She asks suspiciously.

I shake my head. "nope." I consider mentioning the fact that I'm gives me darker hair and skin then Americans, but decide against it.

"I hate you." She says for the fourth time.

My right hand reflexively grips a lock of my hair. "No really, it's a bitch to deal with. See?" I point out a large curl to the side of my head. "Damn thing never stays down."

"Rully?" The girl still looks doubtful.

"Who cares?" Says one of the blonde girl's friends from the next row over. She has short blonde hair and soft features. She long, dark eyelashes and was relatively skinny, but I noticed none of this. Dios mio… Look at the _size_ of those knockers! They are by far the largest I have ever seen in my life. "Most girls would kill to have hair like that; it's not too thick, and not too thin. Too bad it's wasted on a guy, am I right?" Oh, she's still talking… I reluctantly tear my eyes from her chest and look up to see her turn to the girl on the other side of the bubble-gum girl.

Friend number two just nods. She has platinum blonde hair, straightened down below her shoulders with icy blue eyes and bright pink lipstick.

"I'm Joan." The "I-Hate-You" girl says.

"I'm Lovino."

"Uh, yeah, we know." Says the short-haired, blessed-in-the-chest girl. "I'm Katyushka." She motions to the other girl with the straight hair. "That's Natalia."

_Katyushka and Natalia? What kind of names are those?_

"So where are you from?" asks Joan.

"Oh, uh…" I'm always slow to answer this. Sometimes it's because I truly can't remember. But mainly because it implies wherever you lived before, you were established there, with friends, neighbors, and a favorite hangout or two. The places I name are more like pit stops on a never-ending road trip. "Oregon," I say finally. "But we weren't there very long. Before that we were in California."

"Cool!" exclaims Joan. "Did you meet any movie stars?"

I try not to roll my eyes. People were always asking me this in Portland too. For some reason, they equate the entire state of California with Hollywood. (We lived in Berkeley.) And they seem to think the place is crawling with celebrities—as if they line the highways, waving to their fans.

"I once met Ashton Kutcher at an Animal Rescue League benefit." I tell them truthfully.

"Cool!" Katyushka and Joan squeal in unison.

I smile somewhat guiltily. No need to tell them I was one of the maybe four hundred people he shook hands with that day.

"You know…" Joan cocks her head at me, apprising me with her dark blue eyes. "You really should join our club. Don't you think he should? She pivots her head between Katyushka and Natalia.

They nod in agreement.

"Club?"

"Oh yeah, It's really cool. We have all the best parties and all the best people, you know?"

A tickly sensation sweeps up the back of my neck. _Oh no, no, no, no. What are you doing, Lovino? You aren't supposed to be making friends! Remember?_ School's been in session only a few minutes and I've already forgotten my big plan. I just automatically started trying to worm my way into the power group.

Now what?

I start tugging the fingers of my left hand. "Umm… I don't know. I don't think so."

Joan's nose twitches slightly and her heavily mascaraed eyes seem to ice over. "What do you mean you 'don't think so'?" She asks, mimicking me in a snotty little mouse voice.

Woah… this chic is now officially "Pissy Bitch" in my book.

"I just… can't." I answer. "Sorry."

I watch her exchange looks with her posse. Katyushka seems completely stunned, while Natalia just glowers at me. But then, maybe she always looks that way.

"Whatever, your loss. And I mean _rully_." Joan sits back in her seat, signaling the end of our conversation. A second later, Katyshka and Natalia lean in and they all bow their heads together for a whisper session.

I face the front of the room, feeling heavy. It's obvious I've just made a big time mistake—at least in their minds. For a moment or two, I rehears different ways of undoing it, pretending I was joking with them, or claiming to have misunderstood their offer. But I know it's too late for that. Besides, this is what I want, right? Score one for Operation Avoid Friends.

It's better if it hurts a little now then a lot later, when I move.

Lunchrooms are all the same. Hundreds of students' voices jacked up to an earsplitting level. The dizzy aroma of rancid grease and pine-scented cleaner. A sticky film on every surface. Tables like torture devices, with their sharp metal runners at knee level and those crooked plastic lily pads for seats.

Lunch at a new school is like the SAT of social tests. It determines your immediate standing. Whomever you chose to sit with tells people who you are, or who you see yourself as. Choose a crowd too low on the social scale and you'll forever be associated with that power level. Aim too high and you end up getting rejected—that's even worse. Then you have to pick all over again and the rest of the groups will know you viewed them as second best.

Today, for the first time ever, I don't have to worry about all that. I'm just going to eat by myself.

Only…it's not so easy.

I pause at the entrance to the cafeteria. To the casual observer, I'm simply stopping to let past a custodian who's pushing one of those giant rubber trash cans with the word "inedible" on the side. (And may I just add: _duh!_ Don't see many kids mistaking them for vending machines.) But as I wait, I secretly check out the dynamics of the lunch room.

The Stoners are over by the window. A group of Spanish-speaking kids are sitting near the exit, though I don't see that one guy from this morning with them. (Not that I'm looking for him.) A few artsy types are congregates in the back corner. And the jocks are sitting at the table in front of the small stage. In fact, some of them are sitting on the stage itself. Judging by their level of volume and activity, I'd guess the in-group routinely gets away with rowdy behavior—something that's true at most schools. I spot Joan, Katyushka, and Natalia, and some other popular girls. I look around for that guy from this morning—Antonio, I think. (Okay so maybe I _was_ looking for him.) He isn't around, but I do see his group of friends.

I have to find a place soon before I end up looking so obviously lost I get some pity-induced invitations.

And then… I see it." a small section of about eight empty seats at the end of one table. As soon as the lady and her garbage can move by, I head for the spot and settle into the next to last chair.

My first-day powers since dozens of eyes on me, and my ears pick up a few snickers and whispers. "That's the guy who… mumble mumble…" I dig my food out of my lead-free, green-colored bag and line it up in front of me, acting as if I'm deaf, mute, and eternally happy.

I figure I only have to endure about five minutes of intense curiosity before they lose interest. But that's a downside to my first-day ESP: five minutes can feel like five life-cycles… of a sea turtle… in a really toxic ocean.

I do some deep, yogic breathing and try to concentrate on my ABC sandwich. It's my own invention. It's my own invention—avocado, bean sprouts, and cheese on two slices of lightly buttered pumpernickel. Normally it's one of my favorite things to eat, but this time it has all the flavor and texture of dryer lint. Guess taste id the only one of my senses that _isn't_ enhanced today.

Eventually the whispers die out. I've made it through. But it's hard to feel triumphant knowing I have four months of this ahead of me.

In Portland, on a sunny day like today, Bell and I would be sharing a bench outside on the quad. We ate together all last spring only I ended up losing a couple pounds since we did more kissing than eating. Plus I avoided anything that would give me bad breath or leave food in my teeth—which, when you're a vegetarian, is half your diet. Salad, celery, corn, beans, fruit,-they all love to hang out in your dental work.

I wonder where Bella's eating today, and who she's with…

The table suddenly wobbles and I glance up from my tangerine to see a boy sitting across from me. He's a little chubby, though you can tell most of his size is muscle, and he has dark blonde hair. He wears a large brown bomber jacket over his shirt and it has a small golden _A_ pinned to the collar.

"They were supposed to have a nondairy option for the mashed potatoes, but they forgot." He says, scooting his cafeteria tray toward him. "So they gave me two apple crisps instead."

His voice is rather low, and when he talks he hyperextends his lips, like a pouty little kid. A new round of whispering wells up around us.

"Uh…" I want to say something, but I'm not sure what magic words would get rid of him. When I thought up my plan, it never occurred to me that someone might just choose to sit with me,

As I watch him slice through his chicken breast with his plastic knife, I get a brilliant idea.

I grimace at the meat and start packing up my lunch bag. "Hey, um… I'm sorry but I'm vege—"

"Oh shit." He grumbles suddenly as his plastic fork breaks.

_Holy fuck… I've never seen someone break one of those before…_

"Just a sec dude, while I go get another." He says, rising to his feet. "You can have one of my apple crisps if you like."

"Oh…thanks, but I…" Before I can get out a coherent sentence, he's already walked off toward the condiment table.

Now I have no idea what to do. Should I just get up and leave while he's gone? Maybe I could not only eat his crisp but his whole lunch. _That_ would drive him away. Of course, there's no way I could force down the chicken.

As I sit there debating myself and ripping my tangerine into wedges, the light dims slightly and I realize someone is standing behind me. I turn to find the guy from this morning, Antonio, grinning at me like a toothpaste model. At my level I have the perfect view of his fine jaw and a tiny freckle at the tip of his nose. I'm close enough to pick up his sunny, earthy, musk.

"I see that thing leeched onto you," He says, nodding toward my new tablemate. "Why are you over here, anyway? Come sit with us." He points in the direction of the stage and widens his smile.

I feel a little fraction of me following him, as if I'm a set of nesting dolls and the teeniest one in the very center is stuffing things into his lunch bag and leaping up to join him. But the rest of me stays put.

"Aw, come on." He says. "Are you mad about this morning? The guys were just having fun."

Once again, I'm struck by how good he looks—and yet he also seems like the type of guy who wears his looks like a weapon.

"Aren't you glad to see me?" he goes on. "I'm here to rescue you. To take you back to the land of the normal people."

Another doll inside me joins up with his brother, and together they beg me to listen to the guy and do whatever he says I should do. But I can't. What if I make a bunch of friends at the new table?

"Hello? Anyone home?" He teased.

Right at this moment my lumpy tablemate reappears. He slowly sinks into his seat, keeping a wary gaze on the Antonio guy. He looks like a gazelle at the watering hole trying to figure out if the nearby lion is there to hunt…or just drink.

Antonio heaves a sigh. "Are you coming with me or not?"

"Not," I blurt to a chorus of doll gasps inside me. "I already have a place to sit."

Antonio's eyebrows stretch up under his bangs. He's so obviously shocked he loses all attitude. For a couple of seconds, he looks less like a perfect pinup boy and more like a completely real guy. My mind starts conjuring pictures of us taking walks and riding bikes and doing all sorts of things… NO! Mind, do NOT go there!

And then his brows come down and hang over his eyes in a seriously dejected expression. He mumbles something along the lines of "Lo siento." (Is that Spanish or something?) And lopes back to towards the popular table.

The guy across from me and several kids within earshot are all frozen in place. Most have big round Japanese-cartoon eyes that radiate panic and curiosity. But the weird guy just gives me a slack-jawed stare—attentive but not all that animated.

As Antonio's shadow passes, movement and conversation start up again. The strange guy continues to gape at me in that spacey way—as if _I'm_ the one plunked down across from _him_ and started talking about my dietary problems.

"Dude, you just turned down Antonio Carriedo," He says his tone all hushed and churchy.

"Uh…yeah. I guess so." I try to sound all la-di-da, as if I blow of movie star-looking guys on a daily basis (not that Antonio's movie-star looking), but my knees are really shaky and my voice comes out quivery. I can't help wondering if I made a big mistake.

"Nobody does that." The boy continued in an awed way. "He can be bossy sometimes, but all the girls think he's the cutest of the Bippies and the guys all want to be him."

"Bippies?"

He nods. "It's short for 'Beautiful People'."

I stare across the lunchroom and watch Antonio rejoin his pals. He straddles his seat, and the others automatically slant forward as if magnetized. His face looks mopey and I can tell he's talking about me—especially when he turns and does a head-point in our direction. Score two for Operation Avoid Friends.

My weird lunch mate follows my gaze to Antonio and back again—his expression never wavering from that limp open-mouthed state.

Finally he spears a piece of chicken with his new fork and pushes it between his parted lips. "I'm Alfred." He says between bites.

"Lovino." I reply.

"How was school today, Romano?" Nonno asks as he slides a battered-looking cardboard box out of the back of the bumblebee.

"It sucked." I can tell I'm still all mad about the move, because every time I go near my family, these little pains pierce my gut from all directions… I call them the Stabbies. Right now, they're doing a saber dance through my small intestine.

"Oh? How so?" he asks.

"It just did. The kids are shallow. The classes are boring. Even the food is fattier here. Plus it's so damn hot all the time." I seize the moment and look him right in the eye. "I wish we could go back to Portland."

Nonno hands me the box and grabs another for himself. "Every place has its own beauty. You know that."

I blow out my breath extra slowly, trying to sooth that carved-up feeling in my midsection. I don't know what made me think my grandfather would hear me _this_ time when he hasn't the last few thousand. To Nonno and Feli, complaints are nothing but negative energy that needs to be thwarted by sunshiny statements and bear hugs. Two things I _don't_ enjoy.

"Don't worry, Roma." Nonno adds, kissing me on the temple. "Before you even realize it, you'll love it here."

_Not if I can help it._

He closes up the back of the hearse and we carry our packages through the rear door of the shop, which is also our new home. On the first floor is this funky thrift/vintage-clothing shop Nonno is running for his pal Sadiq while the guy is visiting family in Turkey. In the back, next to the rear door, is a set of rickety wooden stairs that leads up to our second-floor apartment. As we pass the stairwell, I hear Feliciano sweeping up after dinner, humming a Joni Mitchell song. I can still smell the curry we ate, along with other things, like mildew and mouse pee.

I've learned from experience that it takes at least a month before a place stops smelling like someone else's home.

Our new apartment isn't that bad. It's small and stifling and it seems kind of neglected, but it has charm. Cinder block walls painted the color of butter, scuffed wooden floors, little shelves and nooks—including one for the phone (which we have yet to buy). When you turn on the faucet, the water spurts out different shades of brown before eventually running clear. And when you open the windows, you can hear the sounds of traffic on the street below and sometimes catch a whiff of the Greek restaurant on the corner.

But compared to other places we've called home, this place is a royal hall. Over the years, we've lived in tiki huts, earth lodges, yurts, various trailers and shacks, modified buses, rat-infested rental homes, slummy apartments, and even a tent. In Portland we stayed in some rich guy's tree house. Nonno did some landscaping for him and helped maintain his grounds, and in exchange we stayed in this massive playhouse he had built for his daughter when she was young. It had electricity, three large rooms, a working toilet, and a full kitchen—but no bathroom. So every day I'd head up to the main house with my towel and bottle of shampoo to use their guest bath.

I remember wandering around their posh designer home and thinking how nice it would be to have a place you could make all your own. It wasn't so much the luxury stuff I envied but the hominess. Their photos were framed and hung on the walls instead of stuck in easy-to-transport scrap albums. They had paintings and African figurines and beautiful groupings of shells and sea stones. I imagined them picking out furniture to match their art and discussing which rooms to enlarge for family gatherings.

It made me think of birds and how some migrate and other, like cardinals, bulk up for the winter and stay put. These people were definitely cardinals, whereas we're wild geese. I wondered what it would be like to set up a real nest and stay put for a while.

Nonno and I set our boxes in the middle of the shop, atop the industrial blue carpeting. Dudz looks like your typical thrift store, with chrome-finished clothing racks and shelves stuffed with shoes. In the back are three wooden stalls with thick nubby curtains and a large cheval mirror. And along the side wall, near the entrance, is a green boomerang-patterned laminate counter holding up an ancient cash register.

Nonno walks up to the counter and grabs a box cutter. Then he slits the tape on the first box and pushes back the flaps. I reach in and pull out the first item: a beaded top. Next come a couple of black velvet skirts, followed by a linen suit.

After a while we fall into a rhythm, unpacking clothes and hanging them on the rolling garment rack for Nonno to steam (if necessary) and price. The whole time I think about school and how my genius plan didn't work out the way I'd hoped it would. For some reason, it just isn't enough to keep to yourself. People still make assumptions about you and try to be friends anyway—like that bizarre guy in the lunchroom, Alfred. What's his deal? And there were other students in my classes who insisted on being friendly. Plus if that Antonio guy continues being nice to me, I'm not sure how long I can keep ignoring him.

Maybe I just had the wrong plan. I should have pretended to be an exchange student from Italy and spoken in broken, heavily accented English. It was true enough in elementary school, why couldn't it work now? I already have a semi-strong accent. Or maybe I could have turned mute for these four months.

What the hell. It's too late now.

"Is that the last of them?" Nonno asks, lisping slightly from the clothespin in his mouth.

"Just one more thing." I snatch the last garment out of the final box and hold it up, letting gravity unfold it. "My god!" I exclaim, cracking up. "Don't tell me you're going to try to sell this thing? Who'd by this piece of crap?"

Nonno looks it over and smiles. It still amazes of me that he's running a clothing store. Him. A man who's worn the same outfits since I was born.

"Sadiq sells all kinds of stuff." Nonno explains. "Says people always come looking for Halloween or local plays or for acting out sexual fantasies."

This makes me laugh harder. "Who'd find this thing sexy?" I press it up against me and stand in front of the cheval mirror. It is without a doubt the ugliest shirt I have ever seen. A chintzy, flower patterned button up, pearl snaps and all.

No one would dare buy this thing. Not even Alfred. Just being seen in it would mean instant, incurable, loser-ship.

I stop laughing and hold the shirt out at arm's length.

Hmmm...


	3. Chapter 2: Pretty Ugly

**A/N: HEY! HEY! YOU! WITH THE FACE! Yeah, you should totally be my beta. Because I need one. And you're perfect.**

**Chapter 2: Pretty Ugly**

Tip: In order to be unpopular, you must look the part.

Remember four words: "Plastic Flowered Swim Cap."

Never in my worst cold sweat nightmares did I ever think I would go to school looking like a flowered cowboy. But here I am, setting phase two of Operation Avoid Friends in motion. I realized yesterday that it's not enough to _not seek_ popularity. I have to actively pursue _unpopularity_. And dressing like a loser is the quickest and easiest way to make people keep their distance.

Crossing the school's front lawn this morning I instantly see the results of my new plan. Everyone is staring at me. Some point, some cup their hands to whisper to their nearby friends, and some (like the happy Goth couple) burst out laughing.

Even though my mind is totally sold on this strategy, my body isn't. My legs are literally shaking in my boots, which are also borrowed from the shop. (Nonno, who's all about bending rules in the name of free expression, didn't even lift a brow when I asked if I could borrow the shirt. Nor did he question my sanity—something I'm doing this very second.)

I keep propelling myself forward, concentrating on the light clopping of my heels and the rustle of my bag that I carry on one shoulder. Eventually I near the front entrance. I instinctively clap my molars together, readying myself for the final gauntlet: Antonio and his cronies.

"Holy…!" cries one of the lesser jocks, too stunned to finish.

The others turn in unison. I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and keep my eyes on the double glass doors, which seem absurdly far even though I'm only a few steps away.

"Jesus!" Exclaims Antonio, his Spanish accent stretching the word. He bursts out in staccato laughter, his friends' guffaws adding a jarring harmony.

All at once, I want to take it back. I'd wanted my plan to work, but not this effectively. I'm really not sure I can handle a whole day of this. Already my heart is pounding so fast I can't make out individual beats.

I suddenly get an image of me lying unconscious on the floor, EMT's zapping my chest through this horrid piece of fabric… maybe you could die of humiliation?

Somehow my feet keep working and I find myself at the glass doors. All I want to do is scurry to my locker and hide until first bell. Unfortunately I'm a little too vigorous in my movements, and as I swing my arm forward to pull the handle, my Jansport goes flying off onto the ground below. More chuckles follow. Now I have to break my momentum and retrieve my bag.

I bend over, my dark-wash jeans stretching a little to perform the action successfully , and reach for my bag. But before I can grab hold of it, it's snatched away. I look up and find Antonio crouched beside me. His eyes are all sparkly—no doubt from his hearty laughing fit—and his mouth hangs in a lopsided smirk.

Like the proverbial deer, I freeze. Being this near to him makes me a little breathless. I can't help imagining what it would be like to get even closer. Would kissing him be like kissing Bella? Of course not, because he was a—Boy! Antonio is a boy, dammit!

"That is one butt-ugly shirt," Antonio says. "But you know, you totally make it work." He hands me my bag and we rise simultaneously.

"Thanks." I mumble. It's a preprogramed response—triggered entirely by his fetching my bag for me. But as soon as my sound waves enter the atmosphere, I realize he thinks I'm grateful for his crude and rather backhanded compliment.

Antonio's grin widened. "Knew you'd talk to me eventually." He walks back over to his friends and mutters something I can't hear. They immediately start laughing like a pack of howler monkeys.

My mind fills with curse words. _Way to play it cool, Lovino.___I reshoulder my bag, yank open the door and enter the student center, as dignified as a clompy, ruffle-collared, pearl-snapped, flowered creature can be.

Which is not very.

It almost becomes worth it when I enter Mr. Williams' homeroom. As soon as he sees me, he looks me up and down, pushes his glasses up his nose, and then looks me over again.

"Yes?" He says, taking a few tentative steps forward. "May I help you?"

"Uh… I'm new. Remember? From yesterday?"

He continues to frown and blink until a flash of recognition rekindles his features. "Oh yes, Lovino! Please take your seat, announcements will begin soon.

Joan and her ladies-in-waiting are all huddled together for a gossip session, so they don't catch sight of me until I'm heading down the aisle toward them.

Katyushka is the first to react. Her eyes grow alarmingly wide and I hear her suck in her breath. Natalia follows her gaze to me, and her whole face seems to drop an inch: her brows lower, her nose stretches downward, and her jaw falls open, revealing a giant gob of purple gum.

Joan, who had been the one talking, first gives an angry huff at having lost her audience. Nut the instant she spies me, her scowl washes away.

"Oh…_my_…God!" She exclaims. I can't help but noticing the emphasis on "my", Seems she lays claim to absolutely everything.

As I take my seat, Joan lets out a cackling laugh. Taking their cue, the other girls join in.

"Nice shirt." Natalia says between giggles.

I decide to play dumb. "Thanks." I reply, flashing the biggest and fakest clueless smile ever. As soon as I face forward again, I hear the sizzly hisses of their whispering.

This is exactly what I figured would happen. Yesterday these girls wanted to be my friends. But now that I've dared to wear something outrageous, I've gone from potential pal to "total loser we can't be seen with." As much as I don't like it, I do understand. I've done the horrid, behind-your-back talk myself at other schools. It's sort of standard behavior if you want to be part of the in-crowd—a way of constantly reminding people that you're on top.

I lean forward, straining to hear Mr. Williams, who's jerking his arms and trying unsuccessfully to get the class's attention.

"God! Look at those ruffles!" A loud whisper comes from behind me. (Natalia, I think), followed by a mocking laugh (Joan, I think).

I petrify my body so that they won't get the satisfaction of any response. Still my face feels all electrified. You wanted _this_, I remind myself.

I guess I still have some residual effects of yesterday's ESP, because I'm suddenly aware that I'm being watched. This is not as amazing as it sounds, since most of class is gawking at my shirt. But when I turn around, I notice Gilbert gazing right at me. Me. My face. Not my outfit. Unlike yesterday, though, there's no friendly grin. And as soon as he sees me staring back at him, he looks away.

Guess my new clothes have changed Gilbert's mind about me too. Ironic, really, since the guy always looks as if he's just stepped out of a courtroom. Like today. His grey pants seem starched and carefully ironed. His dress shirt is a brighter white where it covers his wifebeater. And his thin white hair is combed carefully to the front.

As I watch, Gilbert rises. "Come on guys! Keep it down!" he hollers. "Let's get quiet." He pauses, waiting for everyone to stop talking before he sinks back into his chair.

Behind me, Joan lets out a sarcastic snort. "What a spaz." She whispers. "Who named him high king ass-kisser?"

"For real." I want to reply.

But then I remember: I'm not one of them. Not this time.

At lunchtime, that Alfred guy plunks down across from me again. Today he's wearing a white button-down beneath his jacket.

"I brought my lunch today, too, because the cafeteria has taco salad and that always gives me gas." He chats away while unloading plastic-wrapped items from a paper sack. One of these he holds out to me. "You want one of my pigs in a blanket? I have tons. I made them last night while watching that game show on TV. The guy lost. I felt bad for him."

"No thanks," I say with a little wave. "I'm vegetarian."

Alfred stops unpacking and watches me awhile, breathing through his mouth. "Really? Why?"

I haven't been asked this in a long time; people always just accept it. So it takes me a moment to frame a response. "Because… I don't believe in murdering animals for food." I finally reply.

"Oh." He watches me bite into my tomato-and-muenster-cheese sandwich. "I guess I do. Although I wouldn't call it murder like I hate them or anything. I just think they taste good."

He's so unapologetic and matter-of-fact that I can't help smiling. It amazes me how blank-faced he is about _everything_. Not once has he seemed to pick up on the stares and the snickers being lobbed at me in the lunch-room. Makes me wonder, is he clueless? Or does he simply not care?

Alfred takes a huge bite out of a pig in a blanket, making his pudgy cheeks puff out even more. "Mmmm," he exclaims, sounding more scientific than passionate. A couple of seconds later, he swallows the glob and claps the crumbs off his palms. "This brand of weenies is better than the last one I bought. These are good by themselves too. You can make a great dipping sauce by mixing grape jelly and mustard and cooking it in the microwave awhile." A thoughtful look comes over his face. :If you wanted to quit being a vegetarian, I mean." He adds.

I eat my strawberries and try to ignore the group of cowboy-looking kids at the next table who are pointing at me and laughing.

"So, did you think he'd win?" Alfred asks, opening a bottle of chocolate soy milk.

"Who?"

"The man on the game show. He was from Illinois, I think."

I shake my head. "No. I mean… I didn't watch it. We don't have a TV."

It surprises me a little to hear myself say this aloud. Normally I try to avoid confessing this for as long as possible, since it automatically marks me as an oddball greenie freak. But that doesn't seem to be a big worry for me anymore. At least, not with Alfred.

"Oh." He says. "My parents let me watch one hour a day as long as I've finished my homework, done all my chores, and practiced the harp."

"You play the harp?" I blurt out in amazement. "Are you in the band?"

He shakes his head and he frowns. "Uh-uh. I was in orchestra but dropped out. I was getting teased for being a boy harp player, and this school is all about marching band anyways. It's real hard to march with a harp."

Again I have to smile. The way he used "real hard" and not "impossible" makes me wonder if he might have actually tried it.

"Besides, band kids have B lunch. This is A."

I wonder if this is why he has no one else to eat with. I consider asking but don't.

"I do private harp lessons now." He adds.

I notice him staring at my strawberries. "Want some?" I ask, pushing the container towards him.

"No, thank you." He replies, still gazing at them somewhat longingly. "I love them, but they give me hives."

"Oh. Sorry."

"That's okay." He says with a shrug. "Did you know that King Richard the Third was allergic to berries? He was mad at this guy and ate strawberries on purpose right before giving a speech to people. When he broke out in hives, he said the guy was a demon and had put a curse on him. So they chopped off the guy's head." He bites off half of a pig in a blanket and chews it thoughtfully awhile before swallowing. "Did you know you can stay alive for four minutes after getting beheaded?"

"Um…no." I find myself trying to imagine it. Would you feel excruciating pain? Would you know what was going on? Or would you just zonk out from the shock of it all?

How does he know all this stuff, anyway?

I'm lost in thought, absently rubbing the ruffly collar of my shirt, when Alfred grumbles, "Oh. Crap!" He's staring at his watch, his blonde brows wavy with panic. "I'm on this new asthma medicine and I was supposed to go take it ten minutes ago."

"Aw, well, I wouldn't worry." I try to reassure him as he hurriedly tosses his food back into his bag. "Ten minutes isn't that lo—"

"Bye!" He cries as he leaps from his seat and bolts down the aisle. I'm left saying "—ng" to an empty space.

With Alfred gone, I feel suddenly open and vulnerable in the loud, crazy lunchroom. I can't help hunching over, all forlorn-like. The plan is working. I'm alone and friendless.

And that's when it occurs to me: Alfred never once mentioned my weird outfit.

Midway between the school and our new home, on a curvy creek side avenue, stands a building with a big hourglass out front. The sign above it reads: Gym Perfection in blue script lettering.

I noticed it yesterday, and today decided to treat myself to a nice stress release. So after racing home for a snack and a quick change into some shorts, I pack up a bag with a towel and a bottle of water and jog out to the place.

Over the past five years, I've taken up running, whether outside or on a treadmill. I like the way it steadies me, and shushes up my mind. I'm not an Olympic runner, but my strength and speed have improved, and Feli says it's turned my aura a deeper shade of indigo… fucking pansy.

At the front counter I'm greeted by a lady with a ponytail gathered at the exact top of her head, She hands me a couple of forms to fill out, along with a list of classes and a temporary membership card.

"You're-first-week-is-free-and-after-that-there's-a-monthly-fee-but-you-get-unlimited-classes-and-time-on-the-equipment." She says, her mouth moving like hummingbird wings. "My-name's-Gayla-come-get-me-when-you-need-me." She gives a little twinkle of a smile and flounces off in the direction of the classes.

I wonder what her hurry is if they're so big on unlimited time.

I finish filling out the forms and glance over the class schedules. Luckily I've brought my trunks so if the treadmills are locked away I can at least do a few laps in the pool.

Let's see…damn… the treadmills _are_ locked away. Something else then. Hmmm…. Step class? No. Too spastic. Kickboxing? Nope. Getting my ass kicked is not my preferred way of working out. There's no yoga anywhere on the schedule, but there's a Pilates class that starts in ten minutes.

I look over across from it. There's a map of some trails out behind the building.

That will do.

I hear a rush of sound as the front door opens behind me.

"Oh god. Look." Mutters someone in a snippy female voice.

I turn around and find Joan, Natalia, and Katyushka standing on the welcome rug.

"Hi there." Joan says in a phony, sickly-sweet voice. "What are you doing here?"

I want to say "getting an oil change" but I don't. "I just joined."

Natalia gives me one of those up-and down looks that popular girl have a patent on, taking in my shorts, ratty T-shirt, and running shoes. I can almost hear her thoughts, all slow and snide-sounding. So it's no surprise when she asks. "Are you going running?"

I feel nasty inside. It's obvious from their clothing that they'd be going too. _Damn!_ I need exercise more than air right now, but spending an hour or two in their vicinity on a dirt path could very well make me explode in a shower of half-absorbed strawberries and brown hair. They'll probably make fun of my every move. And if not, what if I forgot again and start trying to be friends again?

"Nu-uh." I say, shaking my head.

Surprise smooths out Natalia's frowny features for a second. "So what are you going to do?"

My eyes flit around the gym as if searching for a Bright Idea sign… and then I see it: an actual sighn. There's a paper taped to the wall reading co-ed Water Aerobics This Way.

"That one." I say, motioning toward the notice. Already a couple of older women are heading down the hallway in the direction of the arrow.

"Water Aerobics?" Joan exclaims, not even attempting to disguise her revulsion. Natalia breaks out in high-pitched bleating. Katyushka, just stares.

"That's right." I say. Hoisting my gym bag, I race into the nearby locker room.

Once inside I sit down on a wooden bench and close my eyes. The heavy air is spiked with the competing scents of Axe and BO, but I go ahead and fill my lungs with some cleansing breaths.

So it's come to this. I am now supposed to hang out with the support-hose-and-hip-replacement crowd. If I didn't want to like Austin, I'm certainly succeeding.

"Hi."

A familiar throaty voice yanks me out of my thoughts. I open my eyes and see my self-appointed lunchmate, Alfred, in blue Superman swim trunks and a white swim cap. His body is tanned and freckled. He really isn't as heavy as his chubby face would have you believe. In fact, he looks sort of… strong.

I suddenly realize I'm giving him the once-over, just like the Bippies did to me. "Hi." I reply, snapping my gaze to his eyes.

"Are you here for the water workout?" He asks, pointing in the direction the sign indicated. Funny how he doesn't seem at all surprised to see me here. For that matter, I'm really not that shocked either. Guess I'm getting used to him popping up all the time.

"Yeah." I answer, unzipping my bag and pulling out my trunks. _I guess I am._

"Here. You'll need to wear this. It's required."

I glance back up and see that he's holding out another rubber swim cap. Off-white little floppy flower things stuck all over it.

_Oh __hell__ no._

"We need to hurry." Alfred says, pointing to a clock hanging from the ceiling. "The class starts in one minute and forty-five seconds."

I follow him as he heads down the gym corridor, his sandals making loud _swack_ing sounds. He has a strange, lumbering walk, as much a sideways motion as forward momentum. And as he rocks from side to side, his arms swing far back, hands open and flailing—sort of like a toddler.

His face is still crumpled in worry, just like earlier in the cafeteria when he was late for his medicine. It's obvious he's really into being on time, and I feel a little guilty that he waited for me.

As we pass a window to our left, I catch sight of Joan, Natalia, and Katyushka all setting out for a run.

Finally we push through the squeaky glass door and head into a large natatorium with grey-green tiles, grey-green walls, and grey-green water. The only contrasting colors come from the bathing suits and swim caps worn by four elderly women standing waist-deep in the pool.

"oh, look! There he is!" says a lady in a purple one-piece.

"Alfred, dear!" calls out a very tall angular woman in hot pink, her voice echoing slightly. "We were worried you wouldn't make it."

Alfred takes off his shoes, sets his towel on a metal bench, and wades down the steps into the water. "I was helping Lovino." He explains. "He forgot his swim cap."

All heads pivot towards me. Once again, I imagine their thoughts and see myself through their eyes: tallish, skinny, long-waisted boy who's black swim trunks clash with the off-white bathing cap. Not to mention I look totally _gay_ with these damn plastic flowers on my head. I feel gangly and awkward, and I wonder if they see me as another Alfred. It upsets me a little to think so, especially since I'm not _trying_ to be weird right now.

"Hello, dear. Please come join us." Calls the lady in pink.

"Better hurry, Lovino." Alfred shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Class starts in less than a minute."

I toss my towel on the bench and ease myself into the pool. The water is bathtub warm and reeks of chemicals. I slowly make my way over to the others and stand beside Alfred.

"Lovino, this is Helen." He says, pointing to the pink-clad woman. "That's Mabel"—He points to the one in purple—"an Doris and Barb." He points to the two at the end of the lineup—a tiny frail-looking lady in a tropical-patterned suit and a heavyset one in black "slimming" swimwear. Everyone smiles and nods.

"Are you from Alfred's school?" Helen asks.

"Yes ma'am. I just moved here from the West Coast."

The large woman, Barb, makes a harrumphing noise that bounces harshly off the walls. "All these folks moving here from California… they're the ones making traffic worse and driving up out property taxes!" Her voice is deep and braying, almost manly, and I instinctively shrink back out of her line of sight.

Helen laughs lightly and leans across Alfred towards me. "Don't mind Barb." She says, her blue eyes glittering under the flourescents. "She's not happy unless she's mad about something."

I smile and nod.

"Oh, and no need to call me ma'am. I'm really not that much older than you." She adds with a wink.

Barb makes another harrumphing sound.

Right at this moment the door squeals open and a muscular woman in a red racer-type swimsuit strides into the room.

"All right! Spread out and get ready for leg lifts!" She shouts at near-Barb volume.

For the next half hour, the teacher (she never gives her name or asks me for mine) commands us to do several reps of lifts, bends, kicks, and side stretches. The movements are tougher than they look and I find myself straining to keep up at times. Alfred is a star student, Mabel whimpers, and Barb, of course, complains loudly—which makes Helen laugh and shake her head. Occasionally Doris will slip and go underwater, requiring Barb to stop what she was doing, reach down, and lift her back onto her feet. "Whoopsie!" Doris says each time, with a tinkly laugh, followed by various grumblings from Barb.

I can feel some stress working its way out of my body. I can't believe I'm here, with these people, wearing a dorky rubber cap and moving like a marionette. If my cool friends from the past could see this, they'd disown me forever.

Only… they kind of already have. Except maybe Feliks. And he hasn't replied to any of my messages since we left Portland three weeks ago.

"You're doing really well for your first time." Alfred says to me as we stop for a quick breather.

"He sure is." Helen remarks. "You fit right in, Lovino."

"Thanks." I reply.

But her comment makes me feel sad.

By the time I walk back to our shop, my arms and legs felt all loose and floppy. Our upstairs apartment is completely empty. Judging by the silence, I figure Feliciano and Nonno are probably working in the store. I head into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, hoping to claim the leftover avocado salad, but it's not there. I grab a carrot instead, shut the door, and immediately let out a yelp.

Feliciano is suddenly standing there. Usually I know he's around, by the sound of his loose clothing, but not this time. Probably because I'm a little dopey and worn-out from water aerobics, but also because Feliciano's naked.

"Feli! You scared me!" I cry, clutching my chest in a mini CPR move.

"I'm sorry." He says with a giggle, which totally annoys me. I'm really tired of being laughed at today.

He slips past me and opens the fridge. "I was hoping we had another one of those mango sodas." He says, scanning the contents.

"There's one in the door shelf." I point out.

"ooh yay!" He exclaims, doing a jiggly hop for joy. "The Universe loves me."  
_Yeah, you maybe._ I think wearily.

"I hope you weren't downstairs like that." I say, sounding more snappish than I meant to.

"no, no." Feliciano flicks away my comment with a hand flourish. "I was on the roof."

"What?" My eyes widen in a double take.

"You should go up there. It's nice." He opens up his bottled soda and sits down in one of the red vinyl dinette chairs.

"But…but…" My head is suddenly throbbing. I press my fingertips to my temples and take a long breath. "Whatever were you doing on the roof completely nude?"

"Hanging out the clothes." He explains as if the answer should be obvious.

This is one of Feli's things. He loves doing laundry—specifically, hanging it out to dry in the open air. This is why I don't wear a lot of denim. Sunshine-dried blue jeans can practically stand up and walk around on their own.

"Everything takes longer to dry here because of the humidity." He goes on. "but at least it hardly ever rains. There's lots of sunshine. Nonno wants to fill a washtub with good soil and start an herb garden up there."

I shake my head. "Feli, we're not living off the land right now. We're in the middle of the city. You can't just stroll around naked on rooftops. They probably have laws against it. I mean… what if someone sees you?"

He shrugs. "how can they see me all the way up there?"

"We have neighbors."

"Don't be silly. No one else was on their roof."

By now I'm totally exasperated. "But the building across the street has a third story! All they'd have to do is look out the windows!"

He shrugs again and takes a big sip of mango soda.

It's no use. Trying to discuss the rules of society with my family is like trying to talk about world economics with a couple of two-year-olds. When I started attending school, I began to realize just how different my home life is. Even though I agree with my family on most things, I found myself constantly wishing they'd try to fit in with the masses a little more—if only for me and the sake of my reputation. But they don't care about things like social rankings and respectability.

I suppose under my new antipopularity plan, it doesn't really matter if I seem like a freak. But I'd still rather not _feel_ like one.

"Oh!" Feliciano cries out suddenly, leaping to his feet. The vinyl seat sticks to his bare butt for a second before dropping back to the floor. I make a mental note to not use that chair for a while. "I almost forgot. You got a package today, fratello!"

"A package?" I repeat stupidly/ "From who?"

Meanwhile the answer keeps echoing through my brain: _Bella!_ She's the only person who knows our new address! Did she change her mind about the breakup? Is she mailing a manuscript sized apology in hopes that I'll forgive her?

As Feliciano heads for a set of shelves, I rise on my toes and pitch toward him as far as possible without falling on my face. My hands are pressed against my chest, my right palm squeezing my left fist so hard my ring is digging into my flesh.

"I know you've been expecting this." Feliciano croons happily as he walks back toward me, holding out a giant padded envelope.

I eagerly snatch it up and catch sight of the return address label—Westbank High School in Portland. Oregon.

Joy wooshes out of me, making me feel woozy. _Oh yeah._ I forgot that Ms. Ritenour, my old guidance counselor, promised to foraward me some college materials.

"It's that stuff you've been waiting for, isn't it?" He asks, a big oblivious grin pushing his cheeks into perfect balls.

"Uh-huh."

:My brother's going to college." He croons, his eyes crinkled in a sappy look. "Anthropologist, right? Like Margaret Mead."

He sounds like he's trying not to cry about me going away, which I really don't want—because I might cry too. That sudden high of hopefulness about Bella followed by a bitter crash-and-burn disappointment has left me shaky and jet-lagged. I just don't have any energy to play it cool anymore, and sobs are right beneath the surface. But I can't have Feliciano fussing over me in all his brotherly glory.

"I think… I'll go up to the roof and open this." I mumble, trying to figure out a way to get some alone time.

"You should!" Feliciano exclaims. "The sun's starting to go down. It's pretty."

I tuck the packet under my left arm and male ,y way up the steps.

And he's right. It is pretty. The sky is full of pinks and lavenders with puffy grayinsh purple clouds. The orange sun is straining through the oak trees behind our building, making a mottled camouflage pattern on the roof. I walk to the midpoint and sit cross-legged on the rough gravel-like surface.

Clothing flaps in the breeze on the line Feliciano has stretched from the stairwell to the metal shack-thing that houses the attic fan unit. For several minutes I just sit there, dazed, turning the package over and over in my hands. The sobs that have been trapped inside my chest gradually make their way up, until I slump forward, crying. I think about Bella and how my whole face snapped to attention when I saw her. How her smile would practically ding. And the way her eyes looked when I told her I loved her. It was the first time I really felt like I was super important to someone other than my family. It sounds corny, I know, but I thought maybe we were fated to meet.

What happened to that? Why did she give up hope that we would be together again someday? And what if no one ever looks at me that way again in my life? Bella could have been my only chance to find my major "other" and I blew it.

I hear a whapping noise and I lift my head. The breeze has picked up and the clothes are thrashing about on the make-do line, A whole row of my family's shirts are facing me, their arms stretched out as if waiting for a hug. I abruptly turn away.

I love Feliciano and Nonno, but I also can't help hating them a little. Really it's all their fault I was torn away from Bella. Their fault I don't dare make friends this time around. Before we left Portland I really tried to explain to Nonno how much it hurt me to leave Bella. I told him I thought I loved her. He hugged me and said that was wonderful; then he said that if it was real love, distance shouldn't matter, and that there was a whole world full of people to love just waiting for me to meet them, Then he handed me some condoms.

Bella and I had discussed having sex, but in the end we never did. Now I wonder if it was the right decision. If we had gone all the way, I could be hurting much, much more. But maybe it would have made Bella more committed.

A strong gust of wind sweeps over the rooftop, lifting my hair and whipping our clothes into a frenzy. One pair of Feliciano's boxers is now hanging by a single clip. Fearing it might wrench itself free, flutter down onto some innocent motorist's windshield, and cause an accident, I set down the package, struggle to my feet, and go reattach it—adding a third clip for extra security.

Next to his underwear is one of my tops—my favorite one, in fact. It's nothing special. Just a classic v-neck tee in a soft blue, made even lighter from several washings and air-dryings. But it's one of those shirts that seems to have been made just for me. You know? The kind that fits perfectly, seams hitting all the proper places. And the color warms my skin and brightens my eyes. Or so I'm told. People always compliment me more when I wear it.

My lucky tee. The shirt I was wearing when I first asked Bella out.

But I won't wear it here. I want the _opposite_ of luck in this place. When the time comes to leave, I don't want to shed a single tear.

I unclip my T-shirt and shove it inside the elastic if my stretch pants. Then I grab the envelopw and yank open a wide slit and I peek inside to find a few _University_ pamphlets, some color-coded forms, and other assorted papers all held together by a rubber band. A brief letter has been clipped to the front.

_Mr. Vargas,_ The note begins. _Here is the information you requested along with another copy of your transcript and a letter of recommendation from Mr. Whitmore._ I look over the glossy vrochures for various universities and liberal arts colleges. Then I glance at the letter from my former English teacher—a brief, general, "Mr. Vargas is a hardworking student" sort of recommendation.

I still wish the package had been a tearstained note from Bella, but it does lift my mood slightly. A year from now I'll be out on my own, studying anthropology or something, and making real, lasting friendships. No more moving around. And if Bella and I end at the same university, it's still possible we could finish what we started.

If only I could fast-forward the next several months.

_I noticed that many of the colleges you are interested in emphasize extracurricular involvement, _the letter continues._ Although your grades are excellent, and I'm sure you will have no problem drafting a quality essay, you have very few school organizations listed on your record. Be sure to sign up for as many activities as your schedule allows at your new school. Also, you still need at least one more recommendation, perhaps from a club sponsor. Remember, the deadline for many of these applications is December 15. Best of luck, Diane Ritenour._

_ What?_ My eyes back up to reread the last three sentences of her note…._sign up for as many activities…_

Don't tell me… Now I have to join a stupid club?

Replies to your lovely reviews:

Allers3: Oh! You got me! XD Yes, there is _slight_ very_ slight_ Prumano, though one sided. Thanks for reviewing! Especially since you were the only one for the last chapter. DX


End file.
